


Bloom

by pprfaith



Series: Wishlist 2012 [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Outtake, M/M, Multi, No Plot, Prompt Fic, Threesome, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graveyard shenanigans. Colt!Outtake</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt** : Colt series future fluff, Sam included.

+

This late in the year, it gets dark early. 

It’s barely eight, but there’s only the faintest hint of blue left in the sky, tracing the treeline beyond the cemetery walls. 

“Don’t get lost, Francine!” Dean calls after Sam as the taller of the two trudges out the door to find their wayward host. 

They got back from a sorely needed grocery shopping trip half an hour earlier and have seen neither hide nor hair of Buffy since. So Sam reminds Dean that it’s his turn to cook and goes looking for the blonde.

Her car is still parked at the gates, as ever, and the door was closed but not locked. He knows where to find her.

So he makes his way through the cemetery, careful to only tread where he knows he’s on solid ground. Dean laughs at him, but Sam _hates_ walking on top of graves. Nevermind the people buried there, it gives _him_ chills. 

When they were teenagers, Dean used to jump and stomp all over old graves just to piss Sam off. It took Dad giving him a forty-five minute long lecture on respect for the dead and how his ass deserved to be haunted if that’s how he treats other people’s mortal remains to make him stop. 

Sam has fond memories of that day. 

But while Dean got over his grave stomping phase, Sam never got over his little phobia. He walks carefully, meandering between graves, stopping occasionally to place a little stone on a random grave.

It’s a Jewish custom, putting stones on graves, but Buffy’s adopted it from one of her long dead friends and made it her own. She puts random bits of rock on the graves that makes up her garden, sometimes here, sometimes there. “Just letting them know that someone still remembers their names.”

It’s a sign of respect, if nothing else. Dean rolls his eyes whenever he catches them at it, but Sam has his brother all figured out, thanks a lot. There’s a grave toward the front, next to the wall, that says, in faded letters, _Hope Lewis, 1856 – 1862_.

There is an ever growing pile of peculiar pieces of gravel – flat, shiny, shimmering, funny shaped – in the grass at the base of the little tombstone and neither Buffy nor Sam are putting them there. 

But Sam isn’t headed for Hope, right now. He’s going the opposite direction, toward the far wall of the cemetery, where it’s oldest, and most derelict. The tombstones there have no inscriptions anymore and the few iron crosses in between are crooked, tilted and rusting away.

He takes a right at the Adams clan, passes the sisters Adler, rounds the grave of Tilly Stonebridge and finally reaches the flat, uneven rock that marks Eddy’s spot.

Eddy being Buffy’s pet Black Dog and the guardian of the cemetery. Sam is sure the locals have a name for the rock where they light candles for the creature, but Sam simply calls is Eddy’s spot.

Buffy is sitting at the edge of the rock, legs folded under her. There’s a bucket full of wax beside her, with a spatula stuck in it. She’s cleaned the old wax off the stone before the winter turned it into sticky sludge. In place of the multicolored carpet of wax, there’s not a single new candle, fire engine red in the ever growing darkness. It’s already lit and the shadows it casts dance across the blonde’s back in patterns. 

At Buffy’s feet, a seething, impenetrable black mass writhes. She’s bent low over it, hair hiding her face, both hands scrubbing vigorously at the pulsing, ethereal _thing_.

Sam stops to take in the scene and allows himself a moment of panicked _what the fuck, when did this become my life?_ , before settling for a wry smile.

Buffy is crooning at the thing that’s constantly changing shape under her hands, occasionally flashing wicked fangs, or hellish eyes. “Good boy, yes you are, you’re a good boy. You like that, don’t you? I cleaned up for you, nice and neat, and I talked to Ellie, down in town. She’s bringing her children up this weekend to meet you and to show them your place. Be nice for them, huh?”

“Only you,” Sam finally speaks after a minute of listening to the low, one-sided conversation, “would talk to a Black Dog. While petting it.”

He rubs his forehead and chuckles. Only Buffy. But then, that’s the same girl that thinks knives are ‘shiny’, vampires are ‘misunderstood’ and guns are ‘boring, because you need zero skill for them’. 

“He,” Buffy corrects automatically as she straightens a bit, her hands stilling. “And Eddy is smart enough to understand me, aren’t you, boy?”

The Black Dog suddenly solidifies, shaping itself into something that looks like a pitch black Doberman, flashing fang at Sam. He barks once, twice, as if in agreement.

“That’s creepy.”

Buffy smiles sunnily, not that he can fully appreciate it. It’s completely dark by now, and only the candle lets Sam see anything at all. Living so far out of town means there is no ambient light around to guess at things by. 

“The oldest grave around here is two hundred and forty something years old,” she points out, calmly, patiently.

It takes Sam only a moment to get what she’s saying. Eddy was born when people started praying for their dead to be kept safe in this cemetery and unlike Black Dogs elsewhere, he was never forgotten. Over two centuries of worship. Two centuries of faith. Maybe Eddy _is_ smart enough to understand Buffy. He certainly seems to like her.

Personally, Sam thinks the creature has adopted the blonde as one of his charges. She lives inside the cemetery walls. By Black Dog logic, that makes her part of Eddy’s domain. 

Shaking off that particular thought, Sam closes the distance between them – carefully avoiding the mythical creature, thanks a lot – to hold out a hand to Buffy. “Come on, Dean’s cooking.”

She snorts. “My poor kitchen.”

“Don’t worry. It’s frozen pizza. Your kitchen should be fine.”

The look he gets for that clearly tells him what Buffy thinks of his brother’s stunning ability to set fire to _anything_. Mostly without meaning to. 

“Okay, so maybe it won’t. But I don’t smell any smoke yet.”

“Somehow,” Buffy grumbles as she accepts his hand up, “I don’t find that all that reassuring.”

Sam hums in answer, tucks her much smaller frame under his arm and presses a kiss to her temple. She slaps him lightly on the chest in response and then visibly shakes off whatever melancholy drove her out here in the dark. With a quicksilver grin at him, she unwinds herself from his grip and calls, “Race ya,” before taking off at an easy jog.

It’s not really a race. Buffy starts out heading for the church’s entrance, but ends up detouring and Sam follows, chasing her. They have stand-offs on either side of the larger tombstones, they chase and hide and change direction suddenly. At one point, Buffy skips over the top of the markers instead of using them to keep Sam away from her. 

Eddy appears in flashes and snippets of sound at the periphery of Sam’s perception, barking once or twice when Sam gets too close to the blonde. By then, they’re both laughing too hard to do much running anymore.

Eventually Dean pokes his head out the door to holler, “What the hell? You guys getting attacked by tickle monsters out there? You need a real man to protect you?!”

Buffy giggles, honest to god giggles, before shouting back, “You better not be burning down my kitchen, Dean Michael Winchester!”

Sam howls with laughter. “All three names. You really haven’t forgiven him for the toaster.”

It’s been six months since Dean accidentally broke the toaster by stuffing too much bread into it. It was only a small fire, but Buffy’s been guarding her kitchen appliances like a dragon its hoard ever since.

“He promised me a new one,” she primly informs Sam. “I’m still waiting.”

“I’ll remind him,” he promises and finally manages to sang her by the arm and reel her back in in order to tow her inside. She goes willingly and lets herself be handed off to Dean by the door.

“Hey, Crazy Church Girl,” he greets and it’s low and intimate and secret in a way that simultaneously makes Sam get closer and look away, because he’s part of this, but not part of _this_. 

_This_ , the nickname, the way they put their foreheads together and just sort of stare at each other, that’s all them. That’s something that happened before Dean ever introduced him to Buffy, and Sam has no part of it. 

He has his own pieces of them, his bitch/jerk ritual with Dean, moments like the one just now with Buffy. 

He thinks, sometimes, when Dean calls Buffy his girl, friendly and warm, that he should maybe back out. Leave the two of them to it. They’re happy and Sam knows he has no right to them. He’s never had any right to love his brother the way he does, and Buffy… Buffy was Dean’s long before she was Sam’s. 

But then he remembers that he tried leaving once already, for Dean’s sake, and that didn’t turn out so hot.

Remembers, also, that they want him here.

Buffy’s laughter pulls him from his morose thoughts in time to see her slug Dean in the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “No kitchen sex!” she commands, not for the first time.

Buffy is weirdly protective of her kitchen. “It’s the old altar,” she told Sam once when he asked, but that makes absolutely no sense, since they’ve had sex everywhere else, including outside between graves. Sam keeps waiting for the day their debauchery cancels out the sacredness of the place and demons can just start walking in through the front door.

Hasn’t happened. 

Yet. 

“Aww, c’mon,” Dean cajoles. “I’ll clean up after an everything.”

Buffy snorts. “I’ve seen your idea of cleaning, honey. Heck no!”

Dean pouts and then turns his gaze on Sam, who preemptively raises his hands. “No way, man, don’t drag me into this.”

“But _Sammy_!”

“Nuh,” Sam denies, wagging a finger. 

“Sammy!”

“Nope.”

“Sam!”

“Do I smell something burning?”

If real life were a cartoon, Dean would leave little straight lines to indicate speed as he spins on his heel and practically lunges toward the kitchen. Buffy and Sam both watch him go bemusedly.

“That was mean,” Buffy finally observes when Dean, in his haste to save himself from sleeping on the couch, forgets to use the oven mittens and burns his hand as he tries to check on dinner. He cusses up a storm, jumps around like and idiot, fumbles for the cold water tab and ends up tumbling a whole stack of dirty dishes into the sink instead.

There is a resounding crash. 

Buffy winces. 

Sam shrugs, entirely unapologetic, and then goes to save their pizza from burning.

And if he gets splashed by Dean in retaliation and Buffy gets in the middle and it devolves into a water fight and they end up having kitchen sex anyway? Well then, that’s actually kind of brilliant. 

+


End file.
